Jessica tapped the metal square thoughtfully. "He's quite handsome, isn't he? I suppose that's why he caught your imagination. I wonder who he was?"

Laughing, Amanda teased, "The man of my dreams, of course." She tucked the loose tintypes into the album, then closed it and placed it gently on the floor. "This pile will be the keeper pile. Things to be sold will go on the other side."

"Sounds like a good plan to me." Jessica reached for the notebook and pen she'd brought with her. "Now, what we need to do is start listing things to be auctioned. What's first?"

Amanda held up a crimping iron. "Shall we start with this?"

Scribbling on a clean page, Jessica muttered, "That ought to bring fifty cents."

Three hours later, the stack of items to be auctioned had filled five pages and one side of the attic. Leather-bound trunks, dishes, framed portraits, old furniture, and even mule harnesses cluttered the floor. A cheval mirror tarnished with age and sagging in its frame leaned against one wall.

Jessica raked a hand through her frosted hair, leaving a smudge of dust on her forehead. "Dealing with all this junk is exhausting. And it's unbearably hot up here. Let's stop for a while."

Pulling forward a heavy, dust-covered trunk, Amanda said, "One more thing. I found this trunk behind some loose boards in that alcove. Someone obviously hid it there, and I'm dying to see what's inside."

"Lordy, it's hot enough to fry eggs up here, Manda."

"What if it's hidden treasure?" Amanda coaxed. "I might find enough to save the house. Come on, Jess. Help me. Then we'll go down for lunch and cooler air, I promise."

"All right. But I'm more than ready for some iced tea."

It took a moment to open the trunk's latch, but finally they managed it. The smell of moth crystals stung Amanda's nose as she lifted the top. Frothy layers of tissue paper crackled when she pushed them aside.

"Old clothing," she murmured, carefully lifting the garment beneath the tissue paper. Satin folds slid over her arms in a rustling fall. Then her breath caught. "Oh, my-it's the most beautiful thing…"

"What is?" Jessica peered over her shoulder. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of moth crystals. "Ugh. Those things still stink after all these years. Why, Manda-I've seen that dress before."

"You have?" Amanda gently shook it free, and tiny glimmers of pearls glinted in the musty light. "It's not one we ever used to play dress-up. I'd remember this dress. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Earlier today, I saw that dress in one of the old portraits we found stacked against a wall… let me find it."

While Jessica rummaged through the framed portraits they had leaned up against the wall for later inspection, Amanda unfolded the gown as carefully as possible. A few of the pearls fell to the floor with tiny pings, scattering. Even though time had yellowed the satin, she could see that it had once been ivory. Delicate lace edged the high neck and sleeves, and had been stitched down the bodice in a ruffle that must have once been full. Now it was flattened and limp.

"It looks like a wedding dress," she murmured as she held up the gown.

"Here it is," Jessica called, and Amanda draped the gown over the trunk and joined her. They angled a heavy gilded frame against the wall and stood back to gaze at the painting. "This portrait used to be up here in the attic when we were little girls," Jessica said after a moment. "Don't you remember?"

"Hey-I do remember. Only because Aunt Hannah once told me that this was a portrait of a ghost. She said it was whispered that she'd died unhappy, and her poor spirit still haunted Oakleigh years after her death. It scared me out of my wits as a child, but I never saw or heard any signs of a ghost, so I just forgot about it in time."

"Who was she?"

Frowning, Amanda said, "Aunt Hannah called her Deborah. I can't remember if she was close family, or a distant relative. I'm not certain why we have this portrait of her, except maybe because she's supposed to have haunted the house for a while. Oh, look-this was painted in front of the house. The porch looks almost the same. Look at the trees, how small they were then…"

A shaft of hazy light from the window fell across the portrait of a youthful woman garbed in the gown and seated on a bench in front of the house. A thick line of young magnolia trees provided the background; pale, creamy blossoms framed the woman's rather sad face.

"If this is a wedding portrait," Jessica said, "it must not have been a love match. She looks much too unhappy."

"Not according to family legend. Deborah went ahead with the sitting for this portrait even though her husband had just been killed in some war-Spanish-American, maybe? Anyway, she was pregnant, which made the tale more tragic. She said her husband had wanted the painting done, so now it would be a memorial to him and their love. According to Great-aunt Hannah, she never remarried."

"Just haunted the place. Great." Jessica replaced the portrait against the wall and covered it again. ' 'No wonder this dress has been packed away and lost all these years. It's unlucky. Well," she said, dusting her palms briskly, "shall we have lunch now?"

Afternoon brought heat with it, and the attic was left to be finished the next morning. By dusk, Amanda and Jessica had managed to clear out most of the second-floor bedrooms, itemizing the scanty contents quickly and efficiently.

"My back is aching," Jessica complained as they sat on the front porch sipping iced tea and watching evening shadows creep over the lawn. "All that junk-it's amazing what can be accumulated in so many years."

Amanda sipped her tea, thinking of those who had once lived in this house. Old memories had been sparked with every find, whether a crystal perfume bottle from the twenties or an 1890s' volume of poetry with spidery writing inscribed to a sweetheart on the front page. Bittersweet memories of forgotten times… Her chair creaked loudly as she rocked forward. Crickets hummed in the still, sultry air.

"I wonder," Jessica mused, "what would have happened to this house if not for that feud."

"I imagine it would remain in the family. I wish I knew the real reason for the feud."

"Well, you'll probably never find out. That information is lost to history." Jessica rose, pressing a hand to the small of her back and groaning. ' 'I'm going home to my husband. I'll be back in the morning to help you finish up the attic."

"I appreciate your help," Amanda said softly. "You're a good friend."

Jessica grinned. "Well, somebody has to be nice to you big-city girls who run off and leave us small-town hicks behind. Who would we have to envy if not for you?"

But once Jessica left and the house seemed to enfold her in its embrace again, Amanda felt as if she had come home. Losing this house was painful. But she had the next few days here, and she was determined to wrest all the comfort and memories she could from them. Tomorrow would come soon enough. It always did.

Chapter Three

It was a hot night. Stuffy. Amanda sighed irritably and tried once more to get comfortable. The second-story bedroom windows were open, the black wire fan was on the dresser, and she was wearing only a thin-strapped nightie of ivory silk that reached midthigh, but she was still uncomfortably warm. Maybe she should read. There was a stack of books in the attic, along with decades of old magazines that might prove boring enough to put her to sleep. And if nothing else, it would at least make her insomnia informative. Sighing, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and fumbled for a robe.

The wood floor was surprisingly cool on the bare soles of her feet as she went down the hallway to the back stairs leading to the attic. The bottom step creaked loudly beneath her weight. It was dark on the stairs, and Amanda muttered to herself as she felt her way along.

Perseverance got her up the dark stairs to the attic door. The door was ajar, propped open with a heavy flatiron she'd found in one of the wooden crates. The irons made great doorstops, and she'd wanted the attic to air out before the next morning. She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

Dim patches of moonlight dappled the floor, filtered by the heavy magnolia trees that shaded the house. Fumbling for the switch, she turned on the light. The single bare bulb swung back and forth in a breeze from the open window, casting patches of light and shadow. Amanda scanned the attic floor for the stacks of books she'd placed aside. One of them caught her eye, a leather-bound journal tied with faded ribbon.

Lifting it curiously, she untied the ribbon and flipped open the leather cover. Neatly scrawled on the fly page was the name Deborah Jordan Scott and the date January 1864. She mulled over the name for several minutes, then caught her breath with excitement.

Could this be the same Deborah in the portrait? If so, the unnamed husband was probably Michael Scott-her distant uncle and great-great-grandfather's half-brother. This journal might possibly hold the key to the family feud, she thought as she turned the pages. But to her intense disappointment, moths and rain had apparently destroyed all of the journal entries. Only scattered words were still legible, and those were blurred.

Regretfully, she closed the journal and retied the ribbon. No help there. When she glanced up, she saw the dress she was certain had belonged to Deborah Jordan Scott. It was still where she'd left it, draped gracefully over the open trunk.

Moving around a stack of books, Amanda reached for the dress. The fabric felt cool and satiny, the folds of material rustling slightly in the silence. She held it up to herself and stepped to the old cheval mirror propped against a wall. As a child playing dress-up, long skirts had trailed the floor and tripped her many times. But what would it be like to really wear the gowns of the antebellum period? Scarlett O'Hara had made it look so glamorous, when the reality was probably uncomfortable, inconvenient-and hopelessly romantic.

Amanda yielded to impulse and slipped out of her robe and unfastened the pearl buttons on the dress. She stepped into it rather awkwardly, slid her arms into the sleeves, and pulled it up. Her silk nightgown wadded up around her waist. It took her a moment to wriggle it down before she could adjust the satin folds of the wedding gown. Drat. It would be almost impossible to fasten all the buttons. Women back then must have been very agile. Or employed a maid to help them dress.

When she had most of them done, she turned to peer into the mottled glass of the old mirror. Even in the dim light, she could see that the gown had lost none of its beauty over the years. It fell in simple lines that draped elegantly over her hips down to her ankles. Masses of petticoats would have once swelled the long skirts into a swaying bell shape. Tiny pearls sewn into the material caught the light from the single bulb and shimmered in a misty glow. Intricate bead-work must have once adorned the gown, though now a lot of it was missing. Probably at the bottom of the trunk, along with other long-lost treasures.

Amanda stepped to the trunk and moved aside the tissue that had cradled the gown. Some of the pearls should surely be here, perhaps still nestled in the crinkly folds of tissue paper. She unfolded some of it and heard a faint rattle as if pearls were falling into the bottom of the trunk. Digging deeper, Amanda found several folded sheets of yellowed newsprint below the tissue paper. She pulled it out carefully, in case some of the pearls were caught in the folds. A pen-and-ink drawing of a man with a small beard and plumed hat caught her immediate attention as she unfolded an old copy of the Memphis Appeal. The date of the paper was June 19, 1864.

BATTLE AT BRICE'S CROSS ROADS RESULTS IN FORREST

victory, read the caption above the ink drawing. Intrigued, she read the long article relating the details of Confederate General N. B. Forrest's lengthy fight and ultimate victory over Federal forces at Brice's Cross Roads in northern Mississippi. Why had someone saved this particular article? she wondered.

Then she glanced toward the bottom of the page as bold print seemed to jump out at her: holly springs man killed six months after wedding, it read. Curious, she scanned the article beneath. "Tragedy strikes former Memphian in the wake of General Forrest's great victory over Union forces. After vanquishing the Federals on the Gun-town Road between Holly Springs and Ripley on June 10, the chase continued into the small hours of the next morning. On June 16, in the effort to roust the enemy from northern Mississippi, a former Memphian's husband of only six months was slain. To add insult to this grave injury, Yankee soldiers-who were cowering in the Cold-water swamps in their cowardly flight toward Memphis- then had the effrontery to claim the young man had been slain by his own half brother. Lieutenant James Brandon stoutly denies such grievous charges against him…"